1883, Baycliff, an isolated English village on the Irish Sea. Two women's friendship becomes passion. Cynara, a sculptor, alone, befriends Byron, a visitor who's left Paris in unhappiness. They ride horses, talk, play chess, and exchanging tenderness. Byron inspires Cynara as she sculpts, Cynara becomes Byron's muse as she writes. Then each imagines expressing physical passion to the other, Cynara's visions in black and white, Byron's in color. Their touches remain brief. Does respectability hold them back? What might pull down any last barriers to their expressions of love?
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